


only hope can keep me together

by glitteratiglue



Series: TNG '80s [2]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: The Next Generation (Movies)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Families of Choice, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 22:03:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3666885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteratiglue/pseuds/glitteratiglue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beverly and Jean-Luc try to make sense of the changed world they find themselves in. Post-<em>Generations</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	only hope can keep me together

**Author's Note:**

> Another TNG friendship fic loosely based on an '80s song (because this is apparently a thing that I started). Set in the time period between _Generations_ and _First Contact_.

_“Just a castaway_  
_An island lost at sea_  
_Another lonely day_  
_With no one here but me.”_

**Message In A Bottle – The Police**

 

Jean-Luc keeps his Starfleet apartments cold, like his ready room. They have the monastic air of a space seldom inhabited – and indeed they would, as he's probably only been here a handful of times in the past eight years – the slightest noise echoing loudly across the bare chrome and white walls. Still, the view over the San Francisco Bay is impressive; Beverly expected nothing less for one of Starfleet's most decorated captains. In typical Jean-Luc fashion, he doesn't even seem to notice the view.

She tears her gaze from the window, purses her lips. “Can't you turn the temperature up just a little?”

He looks her up and down, dispassionately eyeing the off-the-shoulder red sheath dress she's worn for the occasion.

There's a hint of private amusement in his eyes when he says, “If you would dress appropriately, Beverly, then it wouldn't be an issue.”

Laughing it off, she tells the computer, “Increase environmental temperature by ten degrees.” She smiles, wrapping a shawl around her bare shoulders, and sits down on the chair he pulls out for her. “There. It's a compromise. I would have increased it by fifteen, given the choice."

“You are a thoughtful woman,” Jean-Luc says dryly, taking a seat in the chair opposite. He reaches for the bottle of wine in the centre of the table. “I hope this Bordeaux will suffice. The remaining _Château Picard_ is still in storage in La Barre.”

Beverly grins, holds out her glass for him to pour. “It'll be fine. It's just great to see you. We could be drinking swamp water and I wouldn't care.”

For the first time that evening, his smile reaches his eyes; it's a kind smile, with a warmth he shows to few people but her.

“The feeling is mutual, Beverly.” He holds up his glass and they toast to better times ahead; it's something they both need to believe, with all that's happened lately.  She can hardly believe it's been six months since they last saw each other, and how much has changed since then. He tells her about the preliminary stages of the _Enterprise-E's_ construction that he's supervising; it'll be one of the new Sovereign-class starships, with greater firepower but a smaller crew, and reduced provision for families: that's something she knows he approves of. When Beverly thinks of Wesley and all the dangerous situations he ended up in, she can't help but agree, despite all her son learned on board their previous ship.

Taking up her former job as the head of Starfleet Medical was a fortuitous opportunity for Beverly, but San Francisco doesn't suit her; it never did. She wakes early, walks alone on the beach and tries to forget the wrongness of everything. Wesley sends occasional comms that give no clue to his location or what he's doing – as if that could ever be enough – and she aches with a lack of purpose and joy in the work she does.

A few men have pursued her; the attention's flattering, but it doesn't feel like the right time for something new, and so Beverly keeps her legs and her heart shut.

Deanna is nearby – the one bright spot of living here – but they're both kept busy by work, and Beverly tries not to burden her too much. Besides, Deanna has an unhappiness all her own, with Will Riker all the way out in deep space and a pain at being apart from him that that's obvious to everyone but her.

Their family has been splintered – yes, Beverly thinks of it as a family, closer-knit than even the one she had with Felicia – and it feels as though nothing is right while they're all apart, scattered across the galaxy. It won't be forever, of course. The captain has had to pull in every favour he's ever earned in Starfleet, but he's managed to secure short-term assignments for the majority of his senior staff: Data and Geordi are on secondment to the Daystrom Institute, Deanna works for the counselling service at Starfleet Medical, and Will is serving as temporary first officer on the _USS Custer_. One day they'll all be together again and these strange days will be a distant memory; this is what Beverly has to tell herself in order to get through each day.

Later, after three excellent courses and a French cheeseboard, Beverly tentatively asks, “Have you been to see Marie yet?”

“I haven't.” He pauses, tugs at the hem of his top with the nervous habit of a lifetime. “I do keep meaning to, but I don't wish to make things harder for her. You know things with me and Robert were...complicated.”

Beverly fiddles with the stem of her wine glass, leans back against the stiff couch they're now sitting on, and says, “That's putting it mildly. You always called him a pompous, arrogant son of a -”

“Yes, alright, alright,” he snaps, sets his glass down with enough force that it makes a metallic clang on the coffee table. “I know I said those things.”

“I'm sorry. You know sometimes I speak before I think.”

“No, it's not you.” His voice is heavy. He turns back to her, and that stern mask he wears is starting to crack; he's sobbing and shaking, a hand thrust against the table's edge in order to steady himself.

Beverly puts her arms round him, and though he trembles as if he wants to shrug off the touch, he lets her do it.

Moments later, he gets up from the couch and moves to stand by the window. Being an intensely private man, Jean-Luc's instinct is to lock himself away in times of distress, to avoid burdening others; she understands that well enough, and doesn't try to follow him.

“It's not even René,” he explains when he can speak again. “It is, of course – there was so much wasted potential, but I hardly knew him. Robert was my brother. I can see us now, weaving in between the vines playing chase, getting under our father's feet.”

Beverly relaxes a little, props an elbow up on a cushion and folds her feet under her. “I bet your father loved that.”

Jean-Luc is staring out the window at the twinkling lights of the bay, but his thoughts are clearly elsewhere. “Oh, he did. Whoever he caught first used to get the strap. I was smaller and quicker, so Robert usually ended up with the sore hand. He'd make me pay for it later.”

“I always wanted a sister,” Beverly says, draining the rest of her glass and reaching for the bottle. “But I think one Howard woman is probably enough for the world to deal with.”

At that, he turns round, and there's a thin smile that quickly fades.

“Robert is dead,” he announces, and it comes out sounding strangled. “That arrogant son of a bitch is _dead_.” His expression is impossible to interpret; it's hard to tell if he's laughing or crying or something in between. “He always said I had to have the last word, and now he's the one who got it.” Now it's unmistakeable: Jean-Luc really is laughing, doubled over with mirth, and it's such an unusual sight that Beverly finds herself laughing, too.

“I will go to see Marie, perhaps next week. If you can spare the time, would you come with me? I know she'd love you.” He is tense as he asks the question, the corners of his mouth set in tight lines.

Beverly leans in and briefly takes his hands in hers, watches Jean-Luc's eyes light up when she tells him, “I've always wanted to see La Barre.”

"Then it's settled."

She passes him a refilled wine glass. “Santé.”

He echoes the toast. “And to your good health.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This series was intended to be a bit of light relief and instead it's turned out a bit depressing, but I guess that's the beauty of friendships: that they endure even in the worst times.


End file.
